


Dagr

by Phileas



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (sort of prequel to The Witch's Garden), Intoxication, M/M, Polytheism, Samhain, Witchcraft, some graphic talk of dead things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phileas/pseuds/Phileas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the last day of October when they first met. All that Paris counted of magic practitioners and craft workers had congressed in the private woods they hold their Sabbat in and the bonfire had just been lit in the middle of their sacred circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dagr

**Author's Note:**

> Les mis Trick or treat 2014!  
> For Orphanfeuilly/Muritz on tumblr!  
> It was a real pleasure to write some Jehan/Montparnasse! Thank for requesting it! (I hope you'll like it, even if it's a bit short. I was working on two big bangs illustrations at the same time.)  
> Happy Halloween!  
> *  
> THE SONG: www.youtube.com/watch?v=HRWleV8om6A

It was the last day of October when they first met. All that Paris counted of magic practitioners and craft workers had congressed in the private woods they hold their Sabbat in and the bonfire had just been lit in the middle of their sacred circle.

Jehan’s eyes were closed as he drank from the bottomless hydromel cup that was slowly making its way along the circle.  
The alcohol was strong this year and he exhaled gently as his neighbor, an older woman with long black curls, took the cup from his extended hands.

“May you never go thirsty” he murmured at the smiling woman.

With the hydromel running in his vein, the ritual seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. He could still taste the honey on his lips as the crowd started to mingle in smaller groups, and he looked around for Musichetta. The witch was nowhere to be seen.  
Jehan had just turned twenty-one and had been living in his little house at the angle of the rue Mondétour for two years now. Musichetta had been his first friend after the death of his mother; she had taken him in and helped him settle down in the old house.  
He let his eyes stray from one group to the other before settling on the tall, slim figure of a man standing a few meters away.  
The man was dressed all in black and grey, wearing stylish clothes and an obvious fondness for jewelry. On his finger was the ring of the necromancer cast. Jehan’s gaze lingered on his wide hips, tight waist and large bust.  
He took a laborious breath as mead was once more pressed to his lips by a girl with leaves in her hair. The warmth of the bee venom burnt his throat and he drank deeply from the cup, the girl laughter a vague bell in his ears as the drums started to echo around the forest. When he looked again, the necromancer was standing in front of him.  
All the air seemed to escape his burning lungs as the tall man took the cup from his hands to swallow the last of the hydromel. When the man talked, his voice was soft and spoke of dark dwellings, of corpses like ripe fruits, of intoxicating flowers and black blood. Jehan shuddered and took a step further into the man’s embrace, murmuring of summer heat, of lost gardens and old knowledge, of willing sacrifices to the Goddess and bare feet on fresh soil. They whispered their names in each other’s mouths.

“The gods are kind to put you in my path, little witch, little bird.  
“The gods know how I worship them.” Jehan smiled against Montparnasse’s collarbone. “They know my faith is strong and my ways are ancient. Come by the altar, where you’ll feel the runes on my skin and taste the spells on my tongue. We’ll burn incense and herbs to call upon the old ones. Your seed in me will bear no fruits as the year grows old and the earth turns to stone.”

*

Samhain had come and gone by the time Jehan woke up the next morning in one of the tents, on the periphery of the still warm bonfire.  
Montparnasse was still asleep by his side and only stirred when a fully dressed Jehan slipped a small pierced stone his loosely fisted hand. The necromancer closed his fingers on the stone and frowned.

“Are you leaving already, little witch?  
“I must go.” He smiled. “Be well, Parnasse. We’ll meet again.  
“Until Yule then, Jehan?  
“Until Yule.”


End file.
